


Five Fingers on Each Hand for Every Mistake

by somanyopentabs



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Explicit Language, M/M, Prison, Prison AU, Prison Sex, Rape/Non-con References
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-17
Updated: 2012-04-17
Packaged: 2017-11-03 19:58:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/385318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somanyopentabs/pseuds/somanyopentabs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Clint Barton gets sent to prison, he doesn't expect a cellmate who's full of surprises.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Fingers on Each Hand for Every Mistake

**Author's Note:**

> The violence isn't actually that graphic, I don't think. And the reference to consent issues is minor, too, but I'd feel bad if I didn't warn for it just in case. This is a lot less fluffy than my other stuff, but then again, it is set in a prison, so I think it's par for the course. Definitely nothing worse than you'd see in Shawshank Redemption. Probably a lot milder, in fact. There is some language that I wouldn't normally use, obviously. Basically, please heed the warnings, and if you're not sure you should read it, you can always message me to tell you what's in it.
> 
> Hints of Tony/Steve, too, but that's not a warning :)

Clint’s cellmate didn’t look like a criminal, and he said as much on the first day.

“I’m a scientist,” Bruce answered, shrugged, and went back to reading a dog-eared paperback while reclining lazily on the thin mattress of the lower bunk. He didn’t elaborate, and Clint didn’t push. After all, he was there to do his time, not to find out some weird guy’s life story.

As far as cellmates went, he supposed he couldn’t complain too much about Bruce, not that he had any previous experience to go on. The guy was quiet. Beyond quiet, in fact. The most noise he tended to make was the soft whisper of pages turning as he read book after book.

Clint took the hint; he wasn’t there to socialize. He talked to some of the other guys on the cellblock to keep from losing his mind, but he had no foolish notions that he was going to make friends. Stark was all right to talk to, most of the time. Clint learned quickly enough that he was the go-to guy for anything he needed that was contraband. He hung around Thor, too. Any time he could stay on the right side of a guy built like that was a good thing. He wasn’t trying to make friends, but he sure as hell wasn’t trying to make enemies, either. Thor was surprisingly good-natured; it was hard not to like him. But Clint didn’t forget for one second why they were all behind bars.

Clint knew Tony’s story (white collar crime), and Thor’s (a bar fight that had gotten out of hand), and he had been as vague as possible about his own crime. But he didn’t know Bruce’s. Even when he asked around, it seemed like no one did.

*

“Don’t you ever talk?” Clint asked one day, tired and frustrated and bored. They didn’t get time in the yard every day, and there were only so many push-ups and pull-ups that Clint could do in their small cell before he wanted to rip his hair out.

Bruce raised an eyebrow, but didn’t close his book.

That was enough for Clint. He tore the book out of Bruce’s hands and flung it across the room. It hit the wall with a dull, unsatisfying smack.

“That was uncalled for,” Bruce said. He was the very picture of unimpressed.

“Yeah, well, what the fuck are you gonna do about it?” Clint was itching to rile this guy up, fucking itching to get some reaction out of him, even if it meant a fight. Oh, Clint had gone too long without a good fight. He’d been trying so hard with the good behavior, too.

Bruce sighed, like Clint was some minor annoyance, like if he ignored him long enough, he’d go away. Well, fat chance of that happening. Clint pulled Bruce to his feet by the lapels of his orange jumpsuit.

“I said,” Clint repeated, inches from the nonplussed man’s face, “what the fuck are you gonna do about it?” He could see a flicker of something in Bruce’s eyes, some restrained emotion just waiting to come out, to be set free.

“I suggest that you back off,” Bruce said, and now there was an edge to his voice. Clint liked that. He liked that a lot.

“And what if I don’t?” Clint grinned, tightening his grip on Bruce’s clothes.

In an instant, Clint was thrown backwards and found himself sprawled across the hard floor. A guard strolled by—Rogers, he recognized—and demanded to know if there was a problem.

“Everything’s fine,” Clint said through gritted teeth. He waited until Rogers moved on before picking himself up off the floor.

Bruce, for his part, had sat back down on the bed. He had yet to go after his book, and he was eying Clint warily.

“What the hell was that?” Clint asked with more curiosity than anger in his tone. He genuinely wanted an answer. Bruce had just snagged his interest even further with that sneaky little move.

“Self-defense?” Bruce sounded less confident now.

Clint laughed. “Yeah, okay. That’s not what I meant, though. Come on, tell me something. Where did that come from?”

Bruce outright scowled at him. “Why should I tell you anything? Are you—are you going to try to start something again? Because I really don’t want to fight you.”

“Tell you what,” Clint said in a low, conspiratorial voice. “You answer some of my questions, and I’ll back off, for good, okay? I don’t like this whole secrecy vibe you’ve got going on. Gives me the creeps.”

“I hardly see how your comfort levels are my responsibility.”

“Seriously? That’s the angle you’re going for? Come on, man. It’s not like you don’t have time to kill.”

“I just want to be left alone.”

“Yeah, and I want a hamburger that doesn’t taste like cardboard and a cold beer, but it ain’t gonna happen. Come on, spill.”

“We’re in prison. I’m not going to—I’m not here to make you a damn friendship bracelet.”

“Fuck you, Banner. Fuck you. No one will fucking tell me why everyone gives you a wide berth, or why everyone looks at you like you’re off your goddamn rocker. Gimme something to work with, here. We don’t have to be friends, god knows why I’d want anything to do with you anyway, but we can at least get along.”

Bruce sighed, and then looked speculative for a moment, like he was thinking things over. “Okay, listen. I’ll give you, uh, three questions. That I’ll answer for you.”

“What are you, a fucking genie?”

Bruce frowned and folded his arms across his chest. “Fine. Two questions.”

Clint rolled his eyes. He eyed the spot next to Bruce on the bed and absently rubbed his arm where it had hit the floor. “Can I at least sit over there? Or are you going to throw me across the room again?”

“What? You’re—you’re the one who got rough with _me_ ,” Bruce said, startled.

Clint huffed out an exasperated breath. “We’re getting fucking nowhere,” he groused. “Tell you what, I’m gonna come sit by you and keep my hands to myself, and you’re gonna turn off your whole mystery act and act like a goddamn human being.”

“As opposed to what, exactly?” Bruce asked with a raised eyebrow as Clint crossed the cell and sat down next to him heavily.

“You act like a—I dunno, a goddamn robot or something.”

“So charming,” Bruce commented lightly, his words doused in sarcasm. “I don’t know why I was so hesitant before. By all means, let me tell you my life story.”  


“Just tell me why everyone walks on their fucking tiptoes around you. That’s all I really want to know.”

Bruce pursed his lips and steepled his fingers in his lap. “Sorry to disappoint, but no.”

“Hey—you said two questions.”

“Besides that one.”

“You’re a dirty cheat.”

“Yes, indeed. I should be locked up—oh, wait.”

Clint stifled a laugh. Bruce was infuriating, but at least he was entertaining. “So what will you tell me? How about what you’re in here for? Or, no, let me guess—you’re still claiming you’re completely _innocent_.”

Bruce shook his head, and then said softly, so softly that Clint had to struggle to hear, “No. No, I’m not. Not at all.”

“Oh.” Clint self-consciously rubbed the back of his head. “Me neither.”

“That counts as one,” Bruce said suddenly, sounding weary. “I’d like to get back to my reading, so if you could ask me already...”

Clint shook himself from his reverie. “Just one more question? Actually, I think I’ll hold onto it for now.”

“All right.” Bruce stood to retrieve his book. “I owe you one question, then. In return for some peace and quiet tonight. Deal?”

Most of the fight had been drained from Clint for the time being, so he nodded readily. “Deal.”

*

Two days later was visiting day. Everyone knew that Thor was expecting his brother. It was rumored that Thor had taken the fall for him, that he was the reason he was locked up. Thor wouldn’t comment on it when asked, and given the size of Thor’s muscles, no one tended to ask twice.

“Anyone coming to see you, Clint?” Tony asked as he waited to be called into the visiting area. Tony had more friends and connections on the outside than Clint could fully comprehend. No wonder he was able to procure contraband so easily. 

Clint flipped him off, deflecting. “There’s no one on the outside I’d want to come see me here.” It was only a half truth, really. The whole of it was that Clint didn’t have anyone, not anymore. Not since Barney had run off and left Clint to get caught with all the evidence. There was a part of Clint that was glad that he was the one locked up, glad that Barney had gotten away. The other part of him just thought it sucked. But prison was a roof over his head, if nothing else. It wasn’t as if he’d had anything better on the outside.

As Clint waited around for Tony and Thor to finish with their visitors, because it was always good to stay in a pack, he spotted Bruce sitting at a table. As always, he was alone. None of the other prisoners would even meet his eye. He didn’t have a book with him, though. His eyes were trained on the small television across the room where most of the other prisoners were gathered. They didn’t have much of a selection in programming, but the news was on.

Clint walked over to Bruce’s table and sat down beside him. “Hey, short stuff. What’s happening?”

Bruce glowered at him. “Haven’t you ever heard that people who live in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones?”

Clint shrugged, grinning at the reaction he’d gotten without even having to work too hard. It was getting easier and easier to goad emotions out of Bruce. “Yeah, but those people don’t have my aim.”

Bruce gave him a look that was at least fifty percent disdain before turning his attention back to the television.

“So, no visitors?” Clint asked, ignoring Bruce’s very clear signals that he was in no mood for company.

This time Bruce didn’t bother looking at him. That was disappointing. “Obviously not. Are you trying to be obtuse, or are you just trying my patience?”

“Ooh, someone’s touchy. What’s the matter, your girlfriend didn’t show up?”

Finally, Bruce turned to him again. “For a man who keeps boasting about his aim, you’re surprisingly fair from the mark.”

Clint nodded, mostly to himself. So, no girlfriend, then. “Boyfriend? Lover? Wife? Pet fish?”

Bruce gaped at him. “Sorry, what?”

“Who you’ve got on the outside, man.”

“That is, quite frankly, none of your business.”

“Wait—I’ve got a question left,” Clint said, remembering and snapping his fingers.

“Oh. You’re sure that _this_ is what you want to use it on?” Bruce blinked at him with wide, innocent-looking eyes.

Clint furrowed his brows, feeling unsettled. “Are you trying to do that, uh, reverse psychology thingamabob on me?”

“No, of course not,” Bruce deadpanned.

“Stop fucking with my mind,” Clint pleaded.

“Then stop talking to me.”

Clint wasn’t about to pout in a room full of guys who could kick his ass, but it was a close thing. “Fine, then. I’ll save my question. You’re still not off the hook.”  
* 

Time in prison ran funny. You either felt every goddamn second ticking by like an ache in your bones, or the days started to blur and run together like watercolors until time had no meaning except in shades of grey.

Two weeks passed in mindless, colorless grey until there was a fight in the yard (none of Clint’s group, fortunately) and the whole cell block went into lockdown.  


Clint paced around the cell like a tiger for two hours before Bruce finally snapped.

“Clint.”

“Yeah?” Clint was feeling edgy enough that he stopped in his tracks, vibrating misery and hostility.

“Would you like you borrow a book?” Bruce’s words were measured, like he’d been thinking about what strategy to take for the whole two hours of Clint winding himself up like a too-taut ball of twine.

Clint shook his head almost violently. “I’m not much for reading.” His tone was fierce enough that Bruce didn’t look like he would even think of asking him again.

“Cards, then?”

“Yeah, all right.”

They played mindlessly for a while, silly games like rummy and war, because there was no point in poker with just the two of them and nothing to bet, but it seemed to do the trick. The trapped feeling inside Clint’s chest eventually began to subside.

They began to talk as they played. Nothing personal, just gossip from around the prison yard, the fact that Tony had almost gotten in big trouble for possessing contraband in his cell, the unfounded yet persistent rumors that something was going on between him and one of the guards. They discussed the poor state of the cafeteria food and the soggy state of the yard after the recent thunderstorms. Incidentally, Thor had been in a temper ever since Loki had paid his visit.

“So, you’re not being an antisocial asshole today,” Clint said during a lull in the conversation as they took a break to reshuffle the deck. “What gives?”

“Your way with words continues to astound me,” Bruce said, not seeming offended at all. “And please, I do have quite a bit of self-preservation instinct. You looked like you were going to attempt to rip the bars out.”

Clint hummed in vague agreement.

*

Lockdown ended two days after that, but Clint remained calm enough. It was always better when he had someone to talk to, just so he didn’t feel wrapped up inside his own head. And if they only talked about meaningless stuff, that was okay. They didn’t need to know everything about each other.

But not everyone took Clint’s smart mouth with a grain of salt like Bruce did.

A few weeks later he ran into some trouble. And Clint was a tough guy, maybe not big, but he was strong, and he was a fighter.

It was hard to hold his own against three other guys who cornered him, however.

Clint struggled they ganged up on him, holding his arms back while one of the guys, he wasn’t sure who, sucker-punched him.

That was when he heard a familiar voice, and the next thing he knew he was being released.

He looked up, feeling dizzy, and met Bruce’s concerned eyes.

“You’re bleeding,” Bruce said, and helped Clint get to his feet. Somehow they made it back to their cell, and Clint was set unceremoniously on the bottom bunk while Bruce handed him a cloth to hold to his bleeding nose.

“Is it broken?” Bruce asked.

Clint shook his head. He’d had his nose broken before; he was pretty sure he was just banged up at the moment.

“Why the fuck is everyone so scared of you?” Clint demanded as soon as he regained his voice. The words still came out raspy.

“You’ll need to press harder to stop the bleeding. Otherwise I’m calling a guard to get you to the medical wing.” Bruce completely ignored his question, and Clint wasn’t so hazy that he didn’t realize it was on purpose.

“Fuck that. I feel just dandy.”

“Yes, you look it,” Bruce answered doubtfully.

“And hey, you know, I was doing just fine on my own. I could totally have held my own against those guys.”

“Yes, I’m sure their knuckles feel quite abused from having hit you in the face.”

“Shut up,” Clint said, weakly.

Clint passed out sometime after that, and when he woke up he was still in Bruce’s bed, the bottom bunk.

“Bruce?”

“Yes?” Came the sardonic voice from up above him.

“You could have kicked me out of your spot,” Clint said in a curt tone of voice. He didn’t like the fact that he was feeling grateful. He didn’t want to owe Bruce so much. First for getting him out of a tight spot, then for giving him the equivalent of prison first aid, and now for being a decent enough person to let him sleep it all off. He didn’t want to be treated like a charity case.

“You were sleeping. And you’re heavier than me.”

“Are you calling me fat?” Clint joked.

“Well, if the orange jumpsuit fits—or doesn’t, as the case may be...”

“You asshole,” Clint said good-naturedly. “What time is it, anyway?”

“Almost time for lights out. You can stay there, if you want. You probably got your blood everywhere.”

“Hey, I just thought this place could do with a splash of color.”

“Now—now that’s just _morbid_ , Clint.”

“I prefer the word ‘unique.’”

“Go back to sleep.”

*

Clint felt decent enough the next morning. He was a little bruised, and his face looked every bit of the fact that he’d been in a losing fight, but he could walk, and his nose wasn’t crooked, so there was that.

He expected the looks he got at breakfast from Thor and Tony, but what he didn’t expect was Tony to lay a hand on his shoulder and ask him why he wasn’t sitting with Bruce.

“Why should I? Everyone knows that Bruce doesn’t like to be bothered. Especially not in the morning.” Clint had learned very early on that trying to make conversation with Bruce in the morning was a lost cause.

“Because, man,” Tony said in a low voice. “Word on the street is, you’re his bitch.”

Clint slapped Tony’s hand away and scowled. “Oh, yeah? The way I hear it, word on the street is I’m gonna punch you in the face if you don’t let me eat my breakfast.”  


Thor was sitting across from them, shoveling what was allegedly oatmeal into his mouth. But Clint knew he was listening in, so he asked him, “All right, Thor, tell me. Is Tony just full of shit, or what?”

Thor swallowed his bite of oatmeal and said, in a resigned sort of tone, “It would seem to be as he says. I don’t know if I believe it, but there is talk amongst the others.”

“Great.” Clint mournfully stirred his oatmeal around with his plastic spoon. What little appetite he’d had was long gone.

“So?” Tony continued. “Is it true?”

Clint looked at him, gobsmacked. “Of course it’s not fucking true. Damn, Tony. I thought you were smarter than that.”

“Certified genius,” Tony proclaimed.

“Yeah, yeah. If you’re so smart, why are you in here with all of us?”

Tony frowned and turned back to his own breakfast tray, muttering something that sounded like ‘Obie,’ but Clint couldn’t be sure.

“You know what? Fine. Everyone thinks I’m his bitch? I’ll go be his bitch, then. Later, haters.” Clint stood up with his tray and walked over to where Bruce was sitting. There were plenty of seating options on either side of him, so Clint sat beside him on his left and opened up his orange juice petulantly.

“What is it now?” Bruce groaned, rubbing exasperatingly at his eyes. “It’s too early, Clint. I can’t deal with you right now. Go bug the rest of your muscle club.”

“It’s not actually a club,” Clint pointed out, even though he knew Bruce was being facetious. “We just work out. It’s okay to be jealous.”

“Go away before I stab you with my plastic ware.”

“Yeah, no. I’m pretty sure they designed it so that won’t work.”

At that, Bruce decided to ignore Clint, taking a small bite out of only semi-burnt toast. Someone in the kitchen must like him.

“So, here’s a funny story,” Clint said, undeterred as always. “Thanks to your little badass rescue stunt the other day, everyone now thinks I’m your bitch.”

Bruce snorted and raised his eyebrows. “And you’d have preferred to have been beaten to a bloody pulp? I’ll keep that in mind for next time.”

“No, no. Don’t get me wrong. I wasn’t complaining. I just thought you should know. So, as your bitch, do I get special privileges? Will people be scared of _me_ , now?”

“You sound like you’re getting a kick out of this.”

“Well, sure, why not. Something to pass the time, right? As your bitch, I think I should get half of your un-burnt toast.”

Clint reached for it and Bruce slapped his hand away. “Don’t even think about it. And I think you’re missing a vital component of this whole equation. What do I get out of all this?”

“Why, the pleasure of my company, of course,” Clint answered, batting his eyelashes.

“Damn it, Clint, don’t do that in here,” Bruce said in a harsh whisper.

“All right, all right. Sheesh, no one has a sense of humor around here.”

Bruce tutted. “Yes, Clint. There is an utter lack of comedy in this _prison_. I wonder why that could be.”

Anything else Clint had to say then had to wait, as the guards started to signal the end of the meal, and they stood up to bring their trays back.

*

Tony cornered him in the yard later that day.

“Hey, buddy. I’ve got some, uh, stuff for you.”

Clint squinted at him as he put a cigarette between his lips and lit up. “Whatever it is, I’m sure I don’t want it. You look shiftier than usual.”

“I’m just looking out for you. Just, hold still. I’m gonna put it in your pocket.”

Clint cringed in second-hand embarrassment as Tony tried to be discreet and slip the items to him. Tony’s skills at getting things were more about his ability to charm people than his ability not to draw attention to himself. He’d just flash his shiny teeth, and people—even guards—tended to look the other way.

Clint stuck his own hand in his pocket after Tony backed off to stand by his side.

“Condoms? Seriously?” Clint gritted out in a voice that was calculatedly quiet.

“There’s lube, too. Hey, I don’t need to know what your deal is, okay? I just thought you’d like to be safe.”

“So, you’re just looking out for my well-being?”

“Yup.”

“Being a good Samaritan?”

“Exactly.”

“Tony, you’re a perv.” Clint sighed.

Tony cracked a grin. “So how is it? I mean, it’s good, right? I mean, he’s not forcing you or anything...?”

“No, Tony. He’s not forcing me.” Clint’s eyes rolled so hard he was sure they were going to get stuck that way.

“So, it’s good?”

“You miss porn that much that you gotta ask me about my sex life?” Which didn’t technically exist, but whatever, it was too much fun to mess with Tony.

“It beats talking about the cafeteria food.”

Clint chuckled. “Yeah, yeah. It’s the best sex ever, okay? Now get lost before you get me in trouble.”

*

Clint still had the products with him when they were confined to their cell for the night. Bruce glanced at them with wide eyes when Clint fished them out of his pocket to temporarily hide them beneath the mattress. He wasn’t sure why exactly he was keeping them; there was a sort of ‘just in case’ thought on the back burner of his mind, however. And it wasn’t like he was exactly opposed to sleeping with men in general. He’d done it enough outside of prison.

“Something you’re not telling me?” Bruce asked.

“Oh, we’re sleeping together,” Clint said casually, slipping out of his jumpsuit. He only ever wore the standard white t-shirt and boxers to bed.

“That’s news to me.”

“Yeah, well, everyone else knows, so it must be true.”

“Good night, Clint.”

“Good night, lover,” he whispered back, just to be contrary, as he settled down to sleep alone on the top bunk.

*

Weeks passed, and time, like always, had a way of bringing new gossip, new things to talk and fight about.

Tony rarely asked about Bruce anymore, but then again, Clint had a feeling that was because he was too involved in sneaking off to see a certain guard by name of Steve Rogers.

It was all hearsay, of course. No one could pin anything definite on the two of them. Clint supposed that was lucky for Tony.

Thor was a good partner for working out with, even if he was in a much higher weight class than Clint. But he was oddly kind, for a prisoner, and he never pried into anything personal.

Bruce seemed to be avoiding him. Clint wasn’t sure how that was possible when they shared a cell that they both got locked into every night, but Bruce seemed to manage it without fail.

It wasn’t until one day when Clint came back to the cell and Bruce quickly picked up a book and began to pretend to read it _upside down_ that Clint called him on it.

“So, what’s your problem, anyway?” Clint asked, sitting down next to him and pressing a finger against the book spine until Bruce lowered it and Clint could look him in the eyes.

“I don’t have a problem.”

“Yeah, and I wear orange because I’m trying to make a fashion statement. Pull the other one,” Clint scoffed.

The corner of Bruce’s mouth twitched, almost unnoticeably, before he gave his answer, “You’re infuriating.”

A smile bloomed across Clint’s face. “And?”

“And...that’s all.”

“You sure?” Clint could feel the tension around them, and he had a good guess. He could be wrong, but he went for it anyway. “You know what I think? I think you like it when I tease you.”

“Oh?” Bruce didn’t give much away, but he didn’t outright deny it, either.

“And I never used up my one question.”

“Didn’t you?”

“Nope. Because you never answer a question directly, so I’m sure of it.”

“And you’d like to use it now, would you?”

“Yeah, I think I would.”

Bruce’s eyes were sparkling with interest, there was no mistaking it. It was now or never.

Clint only hesitated for a moment, deciding on the phrasing, before asking, “Do you want me, Bruce?”

Bruce’s eyelashes fluttered as he shut and opened his eyes, as if he couldn’t believe Clint had just laid everything out there on the table like that.

“I—yes. Yes, okay? I do. There's your answer. Which is completely absurd, of course. I don’t even know you.”

“What’s to know? I’m funny, charming, and devastatingly handsome.”

“Yes, I think I was warned about your type.”

“Criminals?”

“Show-offs.”

Clint laughed, and then Bruce joined in, and of course they couldn’t do anything about their revelation until later that night.

*

It was near torture waiting, but as soon as the lights went out, Clint joined his cellmate on the bottom bunk and kissed him. When their lips pressed together for the first time, it was a desperate, heady thing; it was as if neither of them felt they could get enough, and they pushed each other for more, and more, and more still. At last they both apart with hushed gasps, clinging to each other in the small bunk and letting their hands roam each other’s bodies.

“You can be rough with me, if you like,” Bruce said conversationally, as his hands delved beneath Clint’s t-shirt to smooth over his chest.

“Do you want me to be?” Clint was already breathing heavily. It had been a long time for both of them. The urges to get off quickly and make it last warred in Clint’s mind.

“Not particularly. But it seems like you might like that sort of thing.”

“Fuck, Bruce. I don’t want to hurt you.”

“No?” Bruce’s hands reached around Clint and pulled him closer.

“Nope. Just want you. Okay?”

Wordlessly they undressed each other, the feeling of warm skin against skin was like a glorious shock to Clint’s system, getting him harder than he might have thought possible.

They pressed together, silently, rubbing and grinding together, slowly at first, and then fast and desperately, with Clint reaching down a hand to fist their cocks together.

Clint captured Bruce’s lips in a kiss to keep himself quiet as he came. Bruce’s release was strong and soundless, and then the only sounds in the dark were of them catching their breath, and then the soft rustling of sheets as they reached for each other, closing the distance between them.

 

 

 

END


End file.
